A couple of weeks ago, I took my 8- and 11-year-old daughters to see Wicked: For Good. We all enjoyed the first Wicked, so naturally, my girls wanted to see the second. They asked to go to the mall to pick out pink and green Glinda and Elphaba tees and hair bows to wear to the opening day of the sequel at our local theater. The showing was packed with my daughters’ elementary-aged peers, many of them clad in pink and green of their own. They’ve been dressing up as their favorite characters since they were old enough to ask for it, and every year it’s something new: Frozen, Descendants, KPop Demon Hunters, and now Wicked, of course.
I knew going into this that Glinda, Elphaba, and Madame Morrible’s physical appearances had changed from the first movie, but I wasn’t expecting it to be so pronounced. I was stunned: Not only was I completely distracted by their noticeably thinner bodies in nearly every scene for the two hour and twenty minute duration of the film, but my whole being clenched, seeing it through my daughters’ eyes.
In our family’s experience, “body shaming” becomes a buzzy phrase in junior high and high school. Our elementary-aged kids have always seemed less aware of what it means, but that’s when I’ve found it’s even more important to practice thoughtful conversations. (I don’t allow phones until middle school or social media access until 16, but there’s not a whole lot I can do to prevent them from being exposed through their friends’ devices.) I have learned to approach a topic before it becomes an issue. I have also learned that discussing other people’s bodies can be harmful and toxic, and thus, I’ve adopted a strict rule in our home about no body talk. We don’t use words like “fat,” “skinny,” or “chubby,” and instead use descriptors that allude to age, cultural identities, hair color, or clothing when we refer to people whose names we don’t know. “All bodies are good bodies” is a phrase used often in my home. It is critically important to me to raise self-aware, kind people.
I learned this the hard way: When I was a typical 90s tween, my shag-carpeted bedroom was a shrine of magazine clippings—photos of Kate Moss and Claudia Schiffer, their hollowed out cheekbones framing scowls and dark under-eye circles. It wasn’t until I was well into my teenage years that the dangerous cocktail of glamorized waifs and my own rampant insecurities caught up with me, manifesting into a full-blown eating disorder.
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